No Present Like Time Read Online Free Page B

carefully.
    “That’s the new Swordsman,” I whispered to Tern. “This ordeal will be worse for him than the duel.” My initiation was an awful trial. “Before this is over, he may well wish he’d died out there.”
    She leaned forward to watch him. “It depends how much he has to hide.”
    Wrenn passed us slowly, giving the curious eyes of all the Eszai time to take him in. His short hair was wet from the bath or the steam room. His clothes were clean, but the same dull blue with thread holes on his sleeve where his fyrd patch used to be. He only looked straight ahead to the Emperor’s dais—though not, of course, to the Emperor himself. He reached the platform’s lowest step and knelt.
    “My lord Emperor,” he announced. His voice gave way. He tried again: “I humbly petition to join the Circle and I claim the title Serein, having beaten Gio Ami Serein in a fair Challenge.” He thought for a second, eyes aside like an actor trying to remember his lines—but also because it meant he didn’t look at San. “I intend to serve you and the Fourlands every minute of my life.”
    San regarded Wrenn and the members of the Circle in silence. Even at this distance I felt the scrutiny of his incredibly clear and intelligent gaze. San always wore white—a tabard with panels of colorless jewels over a plain robe that reached to the floor. The pointed toes of his flat white shoes projected from under them. The style of San’s clothes had remained the same since the year he created the former Circle, four hundred years after god left. His whole body was covered except for his thin and ringless hands.
    The sunburst throne also remained a symbol of permanence. An ancient broadsword and circular shield hung from its back. They were a keen reminder that if we Eszai finally fail him in the Fourlands’ struggle against the Insects, San will again direct the battle himself. In the Castle’s stables a destrier is always reserved for him, never ridden, never used.
    San rose and approached the front of the dais. “You have selected yourself for the Circle. You have humbly placed your talents at the world’s disposal. I thank you. Every successful Challenger must complete one last observance to become immortal. You must tell me everything about your life so far. Relate all that you think is significant from your earliest memory to the events that brought you here. You will not lie. My Circle will hear your testimony but they will neither interrupt nor judge. Nothing you reveal will ever be repeated. Only a refusal to speak will jeopardize your entrance into the Circle, not what you say. You have already won.
    “The ceremony continues with your reception afterward: for one hour the other members of my Circle may question you as they wish. You will always reply with the truth; they will neither criticize nor condemn. They are not permitted to repeat your words at any time or place. If anyone ever reveals what he or she learns, he or she will be rejected from the Circle. During the following hour you can question the other immortals about themselves. Likewise they are obliged to tell the truth and you must never disclose what they say.”
    It’s the only chance you’ll ever have, I added to myself.
    San looked expectant. Wrenn hesitated. He suffered in the intense silence, and so began, “My name is Wrenn Culmish. I’m…I am from Summerday bastide town. Insects killed my mother when I was an infant and my father brought me up. He was a fyrd soldier given land for his service, and he taught me to fence…I surpassed him in skill when I was fifteen…But he proudly organized bouts with the other townsmen. I learned from them and soon I always won. So I had a faint dream of trying for the Circle.
    “The year after, a soldier turned highwayman picked a duel with my father, who knew his identity. The robber waited on the road for him on the way back from the pub. My father did not return. I searched for him—I never